The Game is Back On
by Sherlockianwriters
Summary: Three years after Sherlock jumped he's come back. John is excited to have him back, but is curious as to where he's been and why. He's also curious as to where Sherlock got his new dog Everton. But all John cares about is that Sherlock's alive.
1. Chapter 1

It was raining again. Why was it always raining? John wondered. It had been raining then, too. That day at Bart's. He hated the rain. It kept him inside, unable to go out. Nothing to do but sit and think. And remember…

He could remember everything. He didn't necessarily want to though, but sitting in his chair in 221b on rainy days brought back that day, and the days that passed. He remembered every word they had shared during that phone call. They were burnt in his memory. His final moments with Sherlock Holmes.

After that John couldn't go back to the flat for a while. He'd tried but Sherlock was everywhere. Everything was a trigger, his violin, the skull, the lab equipment on the kitchen table. Even the frozen head in the freezer. He made himself go back after a few weeks at the hotel. He still couldn't escape the memories of Sherlock so he might as well go back to the comfort of 221b.

Now it was three years later and John still hadn't escaped his own memories.

…

At last, Sherlock had gotten out of Ireland. True, he was a bit worse for the wear, and John would've been quite cross, but he had made it. There were five fewer of Moriarty's operatives in the world to worry about. And he had picked up a companion as well. The train rattled on as Sherlock glanced at the dog that lay on the seat beside him. Completing his disguise as a blind man, Sherlock thought absently. The only way he could return to London.

…

The clouds had cleared over London. John noticed this as he walked to work the next day. He was still working with Lestrade, not as often as he was obviously not as skilled as Sherlock. But he had acquired some of Sherlock's talent over the years. Even when he couldn't help with deductions he was still a brilliant ME.

John greeted Lestrade as they entered NSY at the same time.

"Morning. What do we have today, anything interesting?" John inquired as they walked to Lestrade's office.

"Naw," Lestrade shook his head. "Just your run of the mill murders. Bet Sherlock would have gotten this one in a minute or two." John laughed slightly. He hated when Lestrade would bring him up at work. It took so much of him to cover up the feelings he felt when ever he thought about that day, or any of the days before.

…

Wanting nothing more than to return to Baker Street, Sherlock stepped off the platform, letting the dog guide him through the mass of people, all of whom were giving him sympathetic glances and plenty of space on the sidewalk. Not that Sherlock particularly minded. He could move faster. The 'blind man' was really the perfect disguise. No one wanted to stare, thus he could not be recognized. John would, Sherlock thought, and turned his not inconsiderable mind to the task of coming up with an explanation for John. What could he say? The dog tugged at the leash, breaking Sherlock's line of thought. A cab was rapidly approaching from a side street. In keeping with his character, Sherlock quite deliberately stepped off the pavement in front of it.

…

John had gotten over his feelings about Sherlock, and they had figured out who the murderer was by the end of the day. It turned out to be the gardener. John had noticed the soil in the victim's wound, even though the body was found inside. Apparently the murderer and the victim's wife were having an affair.

John was back home now, and about to settle down when he heard a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson stood in the dark hallway looking shocked.

"Oh John, the light just went out in the hallway will you be a dear and fix it for me?"

"Oh yes, of course Mrs. Hudson, do you have a stepladder?"

"In the closet there dear."

John located the stool and a replacement bulb in the closet. He carefully climbed up the rickety stepladder, having to stand on the fourth step to reach the light fixture. Sherlock wouldn't even need the stepladder, John quickly shook the though from his head, and continued to unscrew the bulb. He replaced it and then screwed the cover back in place. He was still on the third step when the front door opened.

…

The cab screeched to a halt within an inch of Sherlock. The dog started barking furiously as the cabbie got out and started cursing at him.

"What in the bloody hell did you think you were doing? Watch where you're—oh, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you were—, are you all right? Let me give you a ride. Anywhere, on me." Sherlock smiled, assured the idiot that he was 'quite all right' and accepted his offer.

"Where to?"

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock spent the rest of the ride trying to find the words for his apology to John. They didn't come. He still had nothing as he led the dog up the stairs to the flat and opened the door to fine John standing on a stepladder in the middle of the hall.

…

John was frozen half way down the stepladder. He tried to speak but no words would come out. He felt clouded, like you do right before you fall asleep. Is it really Sherlock or a figment of my imagination? John thought as he tried to step off of the ladder, only to miss his footing, which led him to fall and hit his head on the hallway floor. John had fainted.

John opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He knew he was on the couch in his flat he just didn't know how he'd gotten there. Didn't remember much actually. He had been changing the light bulb in the hall when…

John jumped off the couch, only to be hit by a strong case of vertigo. He leaned against the wall for support while his vision returned. Once it had he sprinted into the kitchen.

"Sherlock!" John said a little breathlessly, he then walked up to Sherlock, promptly popping him in the face. Sherlock didn't look the least bit surprised as he rubbed the side of his mouth, and he hugged right back when John wrapped his arms around him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock pulled away first, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot while he tried to come up with words.

"John, I'm—I, er… Well, I…"

He stopped, not knowing how to say what he wanted to say. "I'm sorry, John. Really. I just—"

…

"I am so bloody mad. I can't even begin to explain how absolutely ticked I am at you." John interrupted. "You let me think for three years, Sherlock; three years I thought you were dead." John paced in front of Sherlock; he let his anger be known.

"I had to live with the guilt, of wondering if there was anything that I could have done to save you. I had to wake up day after day and remember that my best friend was gone. I was virtually alone." John stopped and looked into Sherlock's eyes. John couldn't help but notice how Sherlock's eyes were filled with sadness. John didn't want to yell at him anymore. He had gotten the best gift in the world and he was being such a prick.

"And you know what I hate the most? I can't even be mad at you anymore because you are alive, and you are safe, and that is the only thing I ever wanted."

…

Sherlock listened to John's tirade, knowing he deserved every word. And probably another punch to the face.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, John. But I had to jump. Moriarty's men were going to kill you, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson…if they didn't see me die. I tried to tell you. 'It's just a magic trick', remember that, John?" Sherlock stepped away, half-expecting John to hit him again. When he didn't, Sherlock edged around him and into the living room to sit in his old armchair.

…

John followed Sherlock into the living room, taking his place across from him. Sherlock picked up his violin and started strumming it lightly. They didn't talk, just sat there, looking at each other. John waited for Sherlock to say more, and decided he probably wasn't going to so he might as well speak up.

"How could I not forgive you? Sherlock I've waited three years for you to burst through that door. I just always thought it was a pipe dream." Sherlock gives John a wholehearted smile.

John hesitates on asking the next question. He fidgets in his chair until Sherlock gives him a knowing look.

"Where were you all this time?"

…

Sherlock froze, then slowly set his violin down. He didn't want to lie to John, but he didn't want…

"Running. Mostly in the North and in Ireland. Couldn't stay in one spot for very long." He twisted the dog's leash in his hands absently.

"I wanted to tell you, John, but it wasn't possible."

…

"I know, I know. I'm sorry I keep asking questions; I know you don't want to answer. I just haven't fully accepted that you're alive yet! I guess it won't feel real for a while." John looked at the black lab Sherlock had brought in. Wonder where he stole that from, John thought. The dog noticed John looking at him and sat down in front of John begging to be pet.

"So where'd you get the dog?"

…

"It isn't that I don't want to answer, John. Just…not yet." Sherlock glanced over to the dog. "That's Everton. I picked him up about two months ago while I was on the run in western Ireland. Just sort of happened."

…

"I didn't think you could keep and animal alive for that long." John said still patting Everton. Sherlock smirked.

"Hey Evvie, do you give paw?" John asked extending his hand out to the lab." The dog placed his large black paw in John's hand.

"He's smart. I see why you kept him around."

…

"He's been extremely helpful to me on more than one occasion. I've taught him quite a few tricks, though that isn't one of them." Sherlock put the leash down, stood and went to the mantelpiece.

"You kept my things." Sherlock touched the skull as though he were afraid it would disappear.

…

John blushed slightly. He didn't want to admit to Sherlock how angry he got at Mrs. Hudson when she had said he should throw Sherlock's things away.

"Yeah well Mrs. Hudson kept telling me I should. It just didn't feel right. I tried putting them away, but it just felt so empty. I had to put them back." John looked at Sherlock who was still by the mantelpiece, looking between him and the skull.

"Wait, does Mrs. Hudson know you're here, She was in the flat right? She must have seen you."

…

"Um. I thought it best to avoid that confrontation for the time being, though she did call from the other room when she heard you fall. Apparently my impression of you is quite convincing." Sherlock left the skull and paced the floor. "I suppose I should tell her soon. Do you think she'd mind if I…kept Ev?"

…

"No, as long as she doesn't end up taking care of him I think she'll be fine. You should tell her. She missed you almost as much as I did." John sat there while, by his expressions, Sherlock was apparently having a battle in his mind. Which wasn't out of the ordinary for Sherlock.

"Do you want some tea?" John asked as he walked into the kitchen and started the kettle.

…

"I will. And no, I-actually, yes." Sherlock watched the astonishment flash across John's face as he looked back in to the living room. He almost smiled, but somehow couldn't do it. He gestured to Everton, who came immediately to have his ears scratched. Sherlock frowned, completely unused to the feeling of safety that the Baker Street flat gave him. It was odd to relax, even just a little bit, like he was now.

He shook his head to clear it. He didn't need to run anymore. Not that he thought he could keep on for much longer, anyway. Sherlock had kept himself going by determination alone for over three months. He needed to slow down, at the very least.

"Maybe you could suggest a way to inform Mrs. Hudson I'm not dead without giving the woman a heart attack, John?"

…

John poured two cups of tea and brought one to Sherlock. He then sat back down in his chair, and thought for a moment.

"Hmm, well definitely don't walk in while she's on a stepladder." Sherlock laughed and shook his head.

"Maybe you could just knock on her door?" But even that would probably give the poor woman a heart attack, John thought.

"Maybe I should come with you."


	3. Chapter 3

"Perhaps you'd better. I don't know that I would…say the right things." Sherlock swirled his tea in its cup, his appetite suddenly and mysteriously gone.

After a pause, he offered the biscuit he had taken to Everton, who accepted it happily. He rose stiffly from his chair, a grimace briefly crossing his face.

"Well, let's get on with this, then."

…

John knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. He waited nervously for her to open. He looked back to Sherlock how was pacing in the small hallway.

"She's going to be so happy you're alright." John said right as Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

"I'm going to be happy to see who's… Oh my! Oh Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson ran out the door and, as John had expected, latched on to Sherlock and didn't let go. Sherlock behaved extremely… human. He was hugging her back. John could tell Sherlock found the whole situation awkward but he was really trying.

"Oh Sherlock, I can't, I can't believe this. Oh my. But how could you do that to us?" Sherlock looked at John begging him to explain.

"Mrs. Hudson, he's told me everything. He had too. Moriarty was going to have us all killed!"

"Killed?"

"Yes, if Sherlock didn't jump Moriarty's men were going to kill us. He tried to tell me what he was doing on the phone that day. I just didn't get it." Sherlock gives John a look of gratitude. John nods; smiling a bit as he realizes just how glad he is that Sherlock is back. Baker Street felt like home again.

…

Sherlock winced as he tried to disentangle himself from Mrs. Hudson's grip as politely as possible. He spotted John giving him a slightly incredulous and approving look from out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, if you wouldn't mind?" Reluctantly, she let go and backed away, looking him over as if she couldn't quite convince herself he was really there.

"Oooh, you've turned to skin and bones, Sherlock! Whatever have you been eating? Oh, I suppose you haven't! Wait there, I'll fix something." She bustled back into her flat and minutes later could be heard in the kitchen.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, tired but enjoying the feeling of being back.

"That went better than expected, don't you think, John?"

…

"Yeah, feels like old times!" John and Sherlock went into Mrs. Hudson's flat. They'd never spent much time in it before. John noticed that it's very tidy, and it very much resembles Mrs. Hudson.

Evvie, who must have noticed Sherlock's absence and followed his scent down stairs, came in through the door and walked right up the Sherlock. Sherlock picked up his leash and put a finger to his lips, telling the dog to be quite.

Sherlock and John sat down in Mrs. Hudson's living room. They waited and when she came out of the kitchen with Sherlock's welcome home dinner she nearly dropped it.

"What is that?" She asked pointing to Everton.

…

Hm. Not quite old times, Sherlock thought as he followed John into Mrs. Hudson's flat. About a thousand things jumped out at him, but he refrained from voicing them. Now was probably not the time.

He was almost glad when Everton wandered in. It felt strange without the dog who had been his constant companion for the past few months. He motioned to Ev, telling him to stay quiet to avoid startling Mrs. Hudson.

She was startled anyway.

"Isn-er…Mrs. Hudson, this is Everton." Sherlock barely refrained from his usual snide remark. "You don't need to worry about him, I've got him house trained."

…

"You better Sherlock! I won't be cleaning after him too! I've got enough to do with you two!" Mrs. Hudson stepped back a little and said calmly. "You are staying Sherlock?"

The thought hadn't crossed John's mind. Was Sherlock staying? Or had he just dropped by to say 'Hello! Not dead just thought I'd tell you!' John looked to Sherlock.

"You are staying aren't you?"

…

"I…erm. I shouldn't." Sherlock decided that he hated being at a loss for words and that it was happening far too often lately as he tried to tell them why he couldn't.

"There's still one more man left to catch. I wonder if you've heard of Sebastian Moran?"


	4. Chapter 4

John's heart dropped into his stomach. Sherlock wasn't staying. And worse he was going to be looking for one of Moriarty's men. They weren't _as _dangerous as Moriarty himself, but they could still kill you. John didn't know what he'd do if Sherlock died. Again. It was hard enough the first time. And for goodness sake, Sherlock had just returned from the dead that day! He didn't have to leave. Not yet.

John looked to Mrs. Hudson who was retreating to the kitchen to let John and Sherlock talk alone.

"Listen Sherlock," John voice was barley a whisper. "You, you don't have to go yet. Just wait a while! Bloody hell, you just got back. You're not healthy enough to go back out there! Or let me come with you! I can help you! You know I can. Please don't leave again." John's voice cracked.

John saw Sherlock shaking his head and knew it was a lost cause.

"I mean Sebastian can't be as dangerous as Moriarty right? I mean you have a while until he finds us?"

…

"I'm perfectly fine, John. I have to find Moran. He's the best sniper in Moriarty's employ, probably in the world. There aren't many men at all who could make the shots I've…seen him make. I have about three days before he catches up with me." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You can't help me, John. Moran is far more dangerous than Moriarty. In the physical sense, if not the mental. I've underestimated him once before, but I won't be so careless again. I…should be back for good in at least a week."

…

"Sherlock that's why you need help! You may be brilliant, but you're not invincible." John started pacing around the small living room.

"You're just so stubborn! You don't realize when you need help."

John stops pacing and looks at Sherlock. He hasn't flinched; no emotion is readable on his face.

"I'm sorry." John sits back down in the chair. Taking a deep breath and letting it out he begins to talk again. "I just don't want to see in the newspaper that you've been found dead. Again!"

…

"Moran will not get the better of me again. I'm ready for him this time." Sherlock's hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the arm of the chair.

"And I won't have you there if I make another mistake. It's too dangerous." Sherlock kept his face carefully blank, trying not to let John see the struggle that was going on inside. Of course, the expressionless look was probably telling him something was wrong anyway, he mused. He shifted in his chair again, unable to find a comfortable position, silently cursing the man who made it impossible for Sherlock to stay when he wanted nothing more.

…

For the most part Sherlock stayed expressionless. But he let it slip for one moment, and that was all that John needed. Sherlock didn't notice this though, but John had.

He'd seen the struggle, the sadness, in Sherlock's eyes. John knew that Sherlock didn't want to go. And that he wasn't leaving John out only because he was too stubborn but because he really cared for John.

"Well then I guess all I can say is good luck."

…

"I can't…would you keep Ev for me? I can't take him with me, not this time. I'm sorry, John, I-"

There he was again, not knowing what to say. Sherlock desperately wanted to hide behind a snide remark or insult as he had in the past, but didn't have the heart to say it.

"Thank you, John. I'll be back soon, I promise."

…

"I… uh, Yes! I mean yes I definitely keep Evvie for you." John sniffed and rubbed the bottom of his nose. Trying to distract Sherlock from his puffy eyes.

Sherlock handed John the dog's leash. John wished that Sherlock didn't have to go more than anything, but he understood why he did. It was to not only keep Sherlock safe, but John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe as well. And John admired Sherlock for his selfless bravery.

"I'll see you in a week then?"

…

"Yes, in about a week. No, Everton, stay. John…I really am sorry. I shouldn't have come back until I had caught Moran, but…" Sherlock stopped. "I'll just go and get my coat." Everton tugged at the leash as Sherlock left the room, whining softly.

…

John held onto Everton's leash tightly. Watching as Everton lunged after Sherlock, realizing it was exactly what he wanted to do. But he didn't. He held onto Everton's leash as Sherlock put on his coat and scarf, Sherlock's signature look. John felt like they were going out for a case, but no. It was just going to be Sherlock leaving this time.

He couldn't wait for Sherlock to come back to 221b for good.

…

Sherlock paused in the doorway, staring out into the street. He knew full well that this could be the last time he crossed the threshold to 221b. After all, Moran had beaten him once already. Maybe he should ask John…no. He had no right to drag John into this mess. Everton barked once, begging to be

taken with. Sherlock made a motion and Ev laid down.

"He responds to twenty vocal commands and thirty hand signals. I haven't the time to teach you each one, but perhaps I can text you the details."

…

John looked at Sherlock standing in the open doorway. Sherlock would be coming back in just a measly seven days. That was nothing compared to three years. John thought. Snapping back to reality John answered Sherlock.

"Oh yeah, yes you can text them to me. But you're going to be back in a few days anyway. I suppose you could teach me them then as well." He saw that Sherlock wasn't so sure. John was dragged back into the memories of the roof. He knew that something was wrong because his eyes conveyed the same emotions he saw at Bart's three years ago, today. John could tell he was longing to stay in 221b, but knew that it would only lead to danger for John and Mrs. Hudson. John admired Sherlock's strength. Sherlock was going back into battle. Hopefully one he'd be returning from soon. John's army personality took over. He straightened and lifted his hand in salute.

…

Sherlock's mouth curved into a small smile at John's salute. "I suppose I could." He almost laughed, he didn't believe what he was saying, why should John? But the look in John's eyes told Sherlock that he believed every word. He would have to make sure he didn't let John down, then. Slowly, Sherlock closed the door and walked away from Baker Street.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been three days. John was beginning to worry, Sherlock hadn't texted him since he left. But maybe that was to protect John; if Moran was anything like Moriarty it would be easy for him to track Sherlock's phone usage.

John hadn't told anyone of Sherlock's return. Not even Lestrade. He was too afraid that if Sherlock didn't end up coming back that they would all think he was going mad, hallucinating; they would put him in a padded room.

I was difficult not to tell people though. When he went into work the next day, Lestrade had been suspicious of the smile that John barley ever showed. He'd asked if John had a new girlfriend. So John lied and said he did, to get Lestrade off his back.

But right now John was relaxing on the couch with Evvie curled next to him as he read the paper, and drank his tea. His phone on the armrest incase Sherlock texted him.

…

It had been three days. Sherlock felt more alone than ever, without John or even Everton, who had been his constant companion for a long while now. He shook his head to clear it. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

Sherlock had concealed himself in an alleyway not far from where he knew Moran's lair was. He had already brushed with Moran several times, but he was still not willing to take a chance. He heard voices and drew back into the shadows as two men exited the building.

Sherlock could've killed Moran then and there. It would've been over, and he could've gone back to Baker Street. No one would've been able to trace the crime back to him, not if he covered his tracks well enough. He knew how to fool the police by now.

But he didn't. Instead, he watched Moran and the other man walk through the alley and out into the sunlit street.

…

John opened the door. The hinges squeaked. There was a fine layer of dust covering everything in Sherlock's room. He hadn't been able to open the door in three years. For some reason he always felt like it was an invasion of Sherlock's privacy. Feelings also got in the way of opening the door. He had tried to go in and clean it out a few times. But he could never bring himself to it. Even walking past the door had stopped John in his tracks a few times, overcome with a sudden rush of emotion.

Today though, John walked through the door with hope. He was going to dust Sherlock's room so that when he came back it would be just how he left it. It would feel like Sherlock had never gone.

…

Sherlock stared at his mobile. A blank text was open. He had tried to send several texts to John, and all had been deleted. He didn't know what he could say. But it was only fair to let John know he was alive. After some deliberation, he sent an inadequate message.

_I expect to be back soon. Nearly have him. -SH_

He almost deleted this one, too. But at the last minute, he hit send instead.

Glancing up, he continued walking down the street, heading towards Moran's hideout since he had abandoned his flat in Eastern London. Moran had made a mistake, and if Sherlock was careful, he could finally catch the sniper.

…

John felt a buzz in his pocket, while he was dusting Sherlock's dresser. He took out his phone, trying not to get his hopes up. But when he saw whom the text was from he was so relieved!

_I expect to be back soon. Nearly have him. –SH_

John replied:

_Glad to hear it. Be careful and good luck. –JW_

John put his phone back in his pocket and continued cleaning; feeling much better now that he knew Sherlock was ok.

…

It was dark; it had been for some time. Sherlock had snuck into Moran's hiding place, waiting for the man himself. The plan itself was simple; carrying it out was going to be another matter entirely.

Moran's accomplice had left about ten minutes ago, and the sniper was currently alone, cleaning his rifle in silence. As soon as the weapon was fully dismantled, Sherlock intended to make his move.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone vibrated. Panicked, he clapped a hand against it, fearing the other man had heard.

Colonel Sebastian Moran raised his head, listening. Sherlock held his breath, willing Moran to return to his task. He didn't.

In one quick motion, he snapped his rifle together again, whipped it towards the shadows where Sherlock had concealed himself, and fired.

…

Day five and Sherlock hadn't texted back; John was beginning to worry.

…

Sherlock cursed himself for being so stupid. He should've moved as soon as his position was compromised. He tried again to rewrap the bandage on his shoulder and resolved never to tell John what had happened. Not the truth, at any rate.

John. John would be worrying. He usually did. He removed his mobile from his coat pocket with a wince and stared at it. Should he text John again? He didn't know.

But something simply had to be done about Moran. Sherlock was rapidly acquiring an alarming number of gunshot wounds.

…

Day six. Still nothing. John had his phone on him constantly. He didn't bother putting it in his pocket anymore; he knew he would just take it out two minutes after he'd put it back in. Mrs. Hudson was worrying too, which didn't help. He felt he needed to comfort her when what he needed most was to be comforted. Evvie helped out with that a little. Somehow Everton made John feel less alone, like Sherlock was still there with him. After work for the past few days John would come home and make tea, and sit on the couch. He would try reading the paper but would often get sidetracked by his thoughts of where Sherlock might be, or if he was ok. Everton would notice John's blank stares and get on the couch. Snuggling up to john, resting his head on his lap. This did help John to a point. But he was still worried. Did Moran get the better of Sherlock a second time?


	6. Chapter 6

He had been so close. Moran had just slipped through Sherlock's net. They were both running now, Moran knew that he was caught, it was only a matter of time. It appeared that the gunman was more than willing to take Sherlock with him, however.

Sherlock had taken a room in a hotel not far from where he knew Moran and his confederates had set up a base of operations. Tonight he would get Moran if it was the last thing he did. He turned on his mobile for the first time in days and sent a text to John. It was only fair.

_I'll catch him tonight or not at all. -SH_

He looked at it, then deleted it. No need to send John into a panic. Instead, he typed

_Back tomorrow, hopefully. –SH_

…

John was woken up by a noise. When he noticed where the noise was coming from he almost jumped off of the couch, waking a snoring Everton. It was a text from Sherlock. He was still alive. John let out the breath he hadn't know he was holding in.

_Back tomorrow, hopefully. –SH_

Hopefully, John thought. Hopefully.

…

Sherlock had finally cornered Moran, exactly 84 hours after he had sent John that last text. Sherlock's phone had been off since then, he was not willing to risk another incident like the one John had unknowingly caused.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran. I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Sherlock Holmes."

"I know who you are." Moran snarled. "I also know you should be dead. I shot to kill. And I never miss." Moran faced Sherlock calmly, but his eyes were darting everywhere, looking for an escape. When they did rest on Sherlock, they were full of hate, confusion, and something more deadly.

"You didn't. I was only saved by chance that night, and I believe I have you to thank for that stay at the hospital." Sherlock calmly drew his gun from his pocket and aimed it at Moran, who gave it a calculating stare.

"You won't do it. You didn't kill my boss, and you won't kill me, either. You think you're better than that. How cute." Moran sneered. Sherlock's finger twitched on the trigger and the sniper's expression changed from mocking to realization and then finally horror as he studied Sherlock's face.

"No-no wait. I can help you, I can-" At that instant, Moran yanked a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock. But Sherlock was faster.

There was a bang, and Colonel Moran fell with a bullet through his forehead.

…

Four days. John had texted him over 50 times in the past four days with no reply. He couldn't help but think the worst. He hadn't slept. He paced the flat, and when he sat down he was always shaking his leg, or tapping on his teacup. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight, and if he did sleep at all he would surely wake up from his nightmares.

…

Halfway down Baker Street, Sherlock's slow limp became a stagger. People on the street began to look oddly at him, no doubt thinking he was intoxicated. Well, he hadn't the energy to prove them wrong.

Sherlock was exhausted, more than he ever remembered being before. His shoulder ached and his head throbbed until he couldn't see straight any longer. The only thing keeping him on his feet at all was the idea of home.

Dazedly, Sherlock opened the door he thought he would never open again. He faintly heard Everton bark once over the pounding in his ears.

Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out of her flat to greet him, stopping when she noticed the detached expression on his face and his glassy eyes.

As Sherlock set his foot on the first step, it finally sunk in that it was over. No one left to run from, or chase after. No more hiding. And more importantly, no more Moran. Sherlock was finally home and safe.

He made it about halfway up the stairs before the last three years came crashing down on him and he fell to the steps with a thud, unconscious.

…

John was already on his way to the stairs when he heard Mrs. Hudson yell for his help. Everton followed close behind. He found Sherlock halfway down the stairs slumped and unconscious.

"Oh god." He said surveying the situation. "What happened?" He turned to Mrs. Hudson. She was at the bottom of the stairs frozen. "I… I don't… He just collapsed." John called an ambulance. "What's your emergency?" They asked. "My friend, he collapsed." John turned Sherlock on his side and moved his coat aside and wasn't surprised to see blood on his shirt. And his pulse was dangerously low. John applied pressure to the wound and answered. "He's been shot, and his pulse is 48bpm." "We're on our way sir apply," "I'm a doctor I know what to do." John hung up and sat on the stair above Sherlock. John thought about moving him but decided he wasn't strong enough. He kept his cool for Mrs. Hudson who was sitting on the bottom stairs sobbing. Everton was trying to fight his way to Sherlock, but John was holding him back with one hand while applying pressure with the other.

"He'll be fine Mrs. Hudson." John heard the ambulance; he guessed it was a few blocks over. It needed to hurry because Sherlock's pulse was dipping lower and lower.


	7. Chapter 7

Dimly Sherlock became aware of shouting. Was it Mrs. Hudson? And there, there was John's voice. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn't quite manage it. He was so tired, so cold. Slowly, the sounds faded into nothing and Sherlock slipped back into unconsciousness.

…

The ambulance arrived and they put Sherlock on a stretcher. John was hit with a wave of déjà vu. That day at Bart's… The jump… The stretcher, carrying him away to the hospital where he was pronounced dead. John rid himself of the thoughts of that day. Sherlock was still alive and he wasn't going to die again. John climbed into the ambulance with Sherlock. He held his hand while simultaneously checking his pulse. He couldn't help it. He was a doctor after all. Upon further inspection the EMS workers discovered that it wasn't a fresh wound, but one that had been previously stitched and had just opened up. Which was a relief to John. It meant that Sherlock had a better chance of survival, and that him passing out was probably more from exhaustion than blood loss.

…

The first things Sherlock was aware of were bright lights flashing in his face. He flinched and made an unsuccessful attempt to turn his head.

He managed a small groan as they jostled him, realizing that he was being moved.

Where was John? Sherlock couldn't hear his voice anymore.

Sherlock made another effort to open his eyes, but found himself blacking out again instead.

…

John sat next to Mrs. Hudson in the waiting room. They had been waiting a half an hour or so when John decided to go to the bathroom. He excused himself and then found the nearest bathroom, where he threw himself in a stall and broke down. The emotions he had hid from Mrs. Hudson in the last hour or so, came spilling out. Pure terror and the relief of finding Sherlock passed out on the stairs. The anxious feeling of waiting for the ambulance. The anxiousness now, waiting to see Sherlock. Waiting for Sherlock to open his eyes. John swiped his nose and opened the stall door. Going over to the sink, he splashed his reddened face with cool water and composed himself to go back out there and sit with Mrs. Hudson.

"Do you think we should call Mycroft? Or Greg?" John dug out his mobile deciding it was a good idea. He called Mycroft first; he seemed unsurprised to find out that his little brother was alive. Happy no the less, well as excited as Mycroft could get. John called Greg next. He didn't even have time to explain the whole story before Greg interrupted. "I'll be there in 5 minutes." He said, and then he hung up.

…

Mycroft Holmes swept into the hospital waiting room as though he owned the place. Actually, he probably did. He spent some time talking with the doctor, and then approached John.

"Four gunshot wounds, three properly looked after, and one not more than a few days old that the idiot tried to stitch himself. Three broken ribs, severe malnutrition and exhaustion. My brother never seems to do anything halfway, does he, John?"

…

It was an extensive list. John was impressed that he'd lasted more than a week out there with all of those injuries. He was probably running off of pure adrenaline most days, John thought.

"No he doesn't." John looks to Mycroft and asks the important question. "He's going to be alright though, yeah?"

"Oh yes, in a week or so he'll be up and moving like normal. Save his arm, he'll need physical therapy for that. But you know all about that John."

"Yes far too much about it." He replies. "So when can we go in and see him?"

"Whenever you like John." Mycroft answers. "He's still asleep of course. Will be for quite a few hours. But feel free to sit in his room for as long as you want. Visiting hours won't apply of course." Mycroft smirks, John knows that Mycroft has tons of power, but it still surprises him when he uses it for good.

John thanks Mycroft and then takes Mrs. Hudson into Sherlock's room. They sit in chairs on either side of the hospital bed. Mycroft obviously doesn't stay; he has business to attend to. After a few minutes Lestrade barges in.

…

"How in the bloody hell did he manage this? He's supposed to be dead!" Lestrade shouted, pacing the room as he tried to form words.

Finally, he turned to look at John expectantly.

"Well? He must have told you! How did he do this?"

…

"He's been running Greg, I don't know where. But he had to dismantle Moriarty's web. I don't know how he faked the fall but he did it for us you, me, Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty's men were going to kill us if Sherlock didn't fall. I was pissed too when I found out, but he explained himself. He did it all for us Greg." Lestrade still looked pissed but had calmed down a little. He stopped pacing and sat in the chair near the door of Sherlock's room.

"How come you didn't tell me he was back?" Greg questioned.

"Greg, I'm sorry! I just… I didn't want to tell anyone before he was back for good! It wouldn't have been fair if I'd told you only for you to find out he was dead again now would it?" Greg sighed, and shrugged knowing John was right.

"Dear you were better off not knowing, trust me! The last few days have been terrible! All the worry he causes, and he probably doesn't even know it." Mrs. Hudson adds.

…

Voices, Sherlock could hear voices again. He couldn't place them, though he knew one was John. Another thing he couldn't place was where he was. It certainly wasn't Baker Street, which was the only place he wanted to be.

His head was too fuzzy to form a clear thought, but he decided he must be in a hospital.

He tried to speak, to say anything, but he didn't get out more than a small groan.

…

Sherlock's groan was very soft, but John had heard it. But nothing came after it. John knew he needed his rest, but he so desperately wanted Sherlock to open his eyes. John needed Sherlock to open his eyes.

But the hours ticked by (slowly) and Sherlock was still sound asleep. Lestrade had left a few hours earlier, and Mrs. Hudson was asleep in the hospital chair.

"Mrs. Hudson," John said shaking her shoulder lightly to wake her up. "You should go home now, and get some rest." She smiled at and got up from her spot in the chair. She nodded to John and put her coat on getting ready to leave, when Sherlock let out a low raspy whisper.

…

"John? Wh…" And that was as much as Sherlock could manage to say. This time, he forced his eyes open and looked around him. John and Mrs. Hudson were at the end of his bed, staring at him.


	8. Chapter 8

John stays over night. He calls Mrs. Hudson and asks her to take care of Everton, not wanting to leave Sherlock alone, so that if he wakes up again John will be there for him. Last night he'd only been able to whisper John's name. He kept his eyes open for about 10 minutes before falling asleep again. John was glad to see his eyes clear, and the life returning to them. But he was also glad when they closed and he got some more rest. He had seen how exhausted he was, and knew he needed all the rest he could get.

At around 12pm, Sherlock rose from his sleep again. He looked dazed for a few minutes looking around the room taking in his surroundings. So unlike Sherlock to look confused, John thinks putting down the paper he was reading and scooting his chair closer to Sherlock's bedside.

"How you feeling mate?"

…

"Less than perfect." Sherlock was irritated at how weak his voice was. "Where am I? Saint Anthony's?" He managed to turn his head just a little to look at John.

…

John saw how hard it was for Sherlock just to turn his head, and frowned. He knew he was going to be here a while, before he would be able to go home. Knowing Sherlock he was going to have a problem with that.

"No… uh… St. Bart's." Sherlock went whiter than he already was. "Listen I don't like it either but it's the closets hospital. Now that your more stable I can have you transferred if you want?"

…

"I want to go back to Baker Street." Sherlock breathed. He hated hospitals and didn't want to spend any more time in this one. He didn't care what sort of shape they thought he was in. John crossed his arms.

…

John crossed his arms. "Do you want to hear the amount of injuries you have? 4 shot wounds, 3 broken rib, and you are malnourished not to mention you're exhausted. You're not going to be able to move from this bed for at least three days. And if you did attempt to you'd rip your stitches. Again."

…

"I don't care, John." Sherlock said, adamant. "I don't want to be here." He struggled to sit, to stand, something that would make John see. But of course, John was right. The first attempt to do so resulted in pain shooting up and down his arm and shoulder. Embarrassingly enough, Sherlock yelped and fell back.

…

"Oh Shit, are you alright?" John asked. Sherlock dismissed him with a wave, and he huffed and tried to get himself into a more comfortable position. But as long as his shoulder was still healing John knew he wouldn't find one. "Listen Sherlock, I may be a doctor but I can't do everything they can do here for you. I don't have the right accommodations or supplies at the flat. Trust me, you'll be much more comfortable here. And they wouldn't release you anyway, not like this." John said gesturing to Sherlock who was huffing and puffing from just the slightest movement.

…

Irritated now, Sherlock snapped. "I DON'T CARE, JOHN!" Instantly he regretted yelling. He tried to apologize, but he was too out of breath. Sherlock leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, trying to calm down and ignore the pain.

"That…was inexcusable…of me, John." He panted. "I'm sorry."

…

"No it's fine. I get it Sherlock. Don't feel the need to apologize. I know that you've wanted to come home for the past three years now and now that you're so close there is this place, the place that put you in this whole mess, holding you back. But just listen to me. Can you do that? Just listen?" He nods slowly still breathing heavily, he looks at John giving him his full attention, not something John is used to. "You're a bloody mess mate. And being in Baker Street is going to do nothing but prolong your recovery time. And I can't stand to see you like this. So please, just for me, stay here as long as they tell you to. Please?"

…

Sherlock stares at John for a long while before he answers. He doesn't want to stay; he just wanted to go home. But neither did he want to be in this pitiful state longer than necessary.

Everything hurt, and he was already tired, even though he had only been awake for a few minutes.

"Not a second longer than I have to, John."

…

"Of course not." John assured him. He noticed Sherlock's eyes glazing over with exhaustion. He needed to rest. "Go to sleep Sherlock. I should go take care of Everton anyway. You don't mind if I leave for a little while do you?"

…

"Everton…where is Ev?" Sherlock's head was getting fuzzy again. He hated the feeling of being unable to form a clear thought. Something told him that Everton shouldn't be there, but…

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, perhaps then the room would stop spinning.

"John, I…" Sherlock whispered, he knew he was falling asleep and he hated himself for it.

…

"Go to sleep Sherlock, I'll be back when you wake up. I promise." Sherlock was shaking his head, he was trying to force himself to stay awake, so John turned out the lights and left. He felt horrible for leaving him when he was still so delusional from the pain meds. But he had to go back and have a shower and take Evvie on a nice walk. So he hailed a taxi, and told the cabbie to bring him to 221b Baker Street.

…

Sherlock fidgeted impatiently as he waited for John to sign him out. It had been an unbearable three days until the doctors had decided he was well enough to go home, and even then, they had only barely let him go.

"Hurry, John." Sherlock stood over John as he tried to sign the required papers. He could barely stand, but that wasn't stopping him from trying to drag John out of there.

…

Sherlock had practically begged his way out of the hospital. The only reason they let him got this early was because John was a doctor himself and could take proper care of him. And even though Sherlock was being released he was still begging. "Yes Sherlock I know, I have to sign this paperwork or they wont let you out." John felt as if he were talking to a three year old. But really he was just as excited to get to go home as Sherlock was.

John helped Sherlock into the cab that was waiting out in front of the hospital. Sherlock was obviously trying to hide the amount of pain he was in. But John saw right through him. He was fine once he settled into the back seat; he sat on the passenger's side so he could stretch out his long legs. Making the ride as comfortable as possible (which was not very comfortable at all).

They went over a bump and Sherlock winced. He's not ready to go home, John thought. But he really was excited to get him back. He knew he could take care of him from here. It was just going to be hard. They arrived at 221b Baker Street and Sherlock's face lit up.

"Welcome home mate." John said as he offered his hand to Sherlock and helped him maneuver his way out of the cab.

…

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't really think he needed to. He limped up the stairs as quickly as he could manage, which wasn't very quickly at all, trying to seem calm. Really, he was just happy to be out of that horrid hospital. There was furious barking on the other side of the door. Sherlock half-smiled.

"Down, Ev." Sherlock called. Immediately the barking stopped, and Sherlock pushed open the door. The dog sat on the rug just inside the doorway, wagging his tail.

"There, boy." He leaned down to scratch Everton's head, hiding a grimace from John.

…

John watched as Sherlock scratched Everton. He then bent down further and placed a kiss on the dog's head. Affection. That was new for Sherlock, John thought. He saw Sherlock struggling to his feet and offered out his arm. He just stared at it for a moment, and then, looking embarrassed, he grabbed hold and let John help him stand up. He kept hold of John as he walked him over to the couch, and lowered himself very slowly. He then laid back and stretched his whole body along the expanse of the couch. Everton tried to join him but John caught his collar before he could jump up and hurt poor Sherlock even further.

"Do you need anything? Some tea? Or a blanket?"

…

"I'm fine." Sherlock almost regretted his characteristic reply, which John had probably come to despise. But this time, it was the truth. Sherlock didn't want anything but to lie there and pretend Moriarty, Moran, and the past three years had never happened. That everything was normal. But of course, it wasn't.

Everton sat by the couch, as close as John would allow him to get. Sherlock rested his hand on the dog's head absently, staring at the familiar surroundings.

…

John nodded, but got a blanket anyway and placed it at the end of the couch. He took a chair from the kitchen and sat across from the couch.

Sherlock's 'I'm fine.' Was reassuring though. John was glad that he hadn't changed too much over the years. He was so relieved that Sherlock was home. No more worrying… well not as much anyway. John would always worry.

Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't have any problems and he could get back to work soon. He'd be able to clear his name and take his place again as the world's only Consulting Detective, after Moriarty had snatched it away from him. He would no longer be the 'Fake Genius Who Committed Suicide." John hated thinking about that. But the more he thought about it the more he wanted to know how he had survived falling from the roof of a 3 story building.

"Do you mind telling me how you did it? How you survived the fall?"


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock noted the blanket at the end of the couch with wry amusement. What didn't amuse him was John's question. He didn't particularly want to revisit that day in his life, but he supposed he owed it to John to explain how he had done it.

"Bart's had been under construction for a while. It was quite simple to use the materials. The scaffold. You'll remember I told you to stay where you were. It was because I couldn't let you see that. I managed to catch it and slow my descent to a non-lethal velocity."

…

John mulled it over and tried to think back tree years. Yes, he remembered reading about Bart's being under construction at about that time. But it still didn't explain everything.

"What about your pulse? And you know… your skull?"

…

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying not to envision the ground rushing up at him at a frightening speed. "I disguised my pulse by the simple trick of a ball under the arm. My head…most of it was fake blood." Sherlock brushed his hair away from his temple far enough to reveal a faint scar.

…

John had to squint to see the silvery scar on Sherlock's temple. He leaned back in his chair amazed. Sherlock couldn't have known what was going to happen for more than an hour if that, yet he managed to set up this amazing magic trick that had fooled Moriarty's men. Which was a very tough act.

"Brilliant." John didn't want to ask Sherlock any more questions about that day, but one thing was still biting at him. "But Molly… she, she told me you were dead." Sherlock, who had kept eye contact with John throughout the conversation, turned his head away. John had figured it out. "Molly knew? And she didn't tell me?"

…

Sherlock hid a mild scowl. He really didn't want to dwell on the events of that day.

"I asked her not to. If you had shown any signs of knowing I was alive…well, there were still too many of Moriarty's men left in London to risk it." Sherlock mumbled. "She was the only one who wasn't being watched." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock glanced at John. The doctor's expression wasn't angry, not really. More puzzled, and a little hurt.

…

John could understand why Sherlock had made Molly promise to keep his secret. But it still hurt.

"She's a pretty convincing actress." John admitted as he straightened from his listening position, and sat back in his chair, soaking in the whole story. The truth behind the fall. It really was all just a magic trick. A sick magic trick, but one that had saved John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade's lives.

John yawned; it had been an exhausting few days. He hadn't gotten a good night sleep in days. He looked at his watch. Only 3:43. But maybe he could get a nap in?

"I really need to get some sleep you ok here? Or do you want to move to your room?"

…

"I imagine I'll move if and when I do need to." Sherlock said, somewhat offhandedly. In truth, he wasn't sure he could. Sleeping on the couch wasn't all bad, though. Not like he hadn't done it before, hundreds of times.

…

John pouted knowing Sherlock wasn't going to be able to get up on his own. But he just nodded and let Sherlock do what he wanted; Sherlock had slept on the couch plenty of times. He started climbing the stairs to his room. His phone buzzed on the fourth step. It was Lestrade.

_Be ready in 10. –GL_

"Oh god, can't a guy get any sleep?" John went downstairs and found Sherlock asleep on the couch. Good, John thought, he'd just want to come and be mad when he realized he couldn't.

John texted Greg back.

_Something important I hope. I'll meet you outside. Don't come up Sherlock's asleep and I don't want him to know I'm leaving. He'll want to tag along and that won't be good for anyone. –JW_

_Very important. –GL_

"Mrs. Hudson?" He called walking down the stairs. "Could you check on Sherlock in a while? Lestrade needs me for a case. Just to make sure he's doing ok?" He pulled on his coat and looked outside to see a police car waiting for him.

"Yes go right ahead! He'll be fine John." She assured him, ushering him out to the waiting police car.

"Just call me if something seems wrong yeah?"

"He'll be fine John." She said as John climbed into the car and Lestrade.

"Wish we had Sherlock for this one." Lestrade said as he pulled away from the curb, turning on his lights and speeding away.

…

Lestrade glanced sideways at John. The doctor looked tired, but happier than Lestrade had ever seen him since…

But Sherlock was still wanted by the Yard. He was only able to hold off the arrest because Sherlock was still half-dead back at Baker Street.

"John." He started and stopped. Taking a deep breath, he began again.

"You know Sherlock's still wanted, right? I've got a warrant here. People still think he's a fake. I need to know how he survived and what he can tell us about a Sebastian Moran." Lestrade watched John flinch. "The name mean anything to you?"

…

Of course the name meant something to John. Sebastian was the one who got Sherlock into the mess he is now. He'd almost taken Sherlock away from him again. But Lestrade couldn't know about any of that. At least not until he was able to talk to a coherent Sherlock, and get the story straight.

"All I know is Sebastian is Moriarty's next in line, and he's an amazing shot. But I can't tell you much after that."

Greg gave him a skeptical look but didn't question him any further on the matter. "And what about how he survived?"

"He mentioned something about a ball under his arm stopping his pulse, and scaffolding to help slow his fall. Most of the blood was fake, and then it was up to Molly."

…

Lestrade cast an alarmed look at John.

"Most of the blood? Oh, Jesus…" Frantically trying to overcome the sudden awkward silence that had come over them, Lestrade turned back to the case.

"Well, er, this murder is a bit of a touchy one. Very important person wants to know who killed her husband. We haven't got a clue where to start, and uh….we could really use Sherlock on this one."

…

"Greg he can barely stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. He's not going to be able to help all that much." Lestrade sighed disappointed, but he must have known Sherlock wouldn't have been able to do much. He'd only been released from the hospital a few hours ago.

"But I don't know, maybe he'll be able to get enough from pictures, and samples. But he has to stay home, for at least a week." Greg just shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road. He didn't seem like he was about to say anything else about the case.

"So who is the client?"

…

"I know…I just thought…I thought he'd like this one, anyway. The woman doesn't really want her name revealed, but our only lead was found dead in an alley a couple nights ago. That's where Moran comes in. He was our lead, and we haven't got a clue as to who killed Moran. So now we have another murderer who needs to be brought in. Only problem is, this killer covered his tracks pretty well." Lestrade stopped the patrol car in front of the Yard. "We-I was hoping you two could give us some ideas."

…

"I'll do my best!" John said as he exited the car. Thankfully he didn't find himself at Buckingham Palace like the last time someone very important needed Sherlock. Though it was a pretty large house. They stopped at the door and put on the little booties and then Lestrade led him to the room. The first thing John noticed was the stab wound in the man's back. Then he noticed the reason why the woman wanted to stay anonymous.

…

"Well, this is where the body was found. Not the most high-end neighborhood in London, is it?" Lestrade said with a mild chuckle. "The other one was brought into the morgue a few minutes ago. Couldn't leave it in the alley."

…

"No can't do that. So obviously death by stab wound. Through the heart it looks." John said moving in to suspect it further. "And the only suspect so far is Moran? And he's dead." Lestrade nodded. John released a huff of frustration. He really didn't want to be here. He was exhausted and crime scenes were no fun without Sherlock's company. Plus he couldn't help worrying. "Well was there anything else? I mean where is his jacket? He must have had a jacket somewhere. Maybe if the killer was frantic and picked it up. Honestly Greg I'm just grasping at straws here." John walked around the room once more. Not noticing anything particularly out of place. Besides the obvious crack lines that were still neatly on the table. "Maybe he refused to pay the dealer? You've dusted for fingerprints already yeah?"

…

"Of course." Lestrade huffed, slightly offended. We didn't find a thing except the victim's prints. As to the jacket, I really don't think Moran would be the type to panic under any situation. I suppose you're right in saying the victim could've argued with the dealer, but what's really bothering me is where Moran fits into this and why he's dead now, too."

…

"It's a thinker I'll give you that." Moran was killed by Sherlock, John knew that much, but he still had no idea how Moran would fit into this homicide. Moran wasn't a drug dealer, he was a sniper, and wouldn't waste his time getting high. He was far too busy for that now that Moriarty was dead, he had run the whole operation. What was left of it that is, which was not much. Unless his crew ran the house, then John really didn't understand why Moran would have been here. They started walking toward the door as two men hefted the body onto a stretcher and carted it away.

"We still don't even know that Moran was here do we? What was the lead to Moran anyway?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Goodbye Greg." John closed the door and started up the stairs. Yes Moran was definitely at the crime scene, but why? And why had he left Sherlock's scarf there in the first place. John was almost sure Sherlock knew something about this that would make it all make sense.

He opened the door to 221b, to find Sherlock awake and alert on the couch, with Everton sat next to him, he was stroking the dog lightly. He had obviously been waiting for John to get home.

"You need to explain to me why your scarf was just found at a seemingly unrelated crime scene. And you better have a pretty good story for Lestrade."

…

"My scarf? I wondered where that had gotten to. Oh, but he's ruined it, I'm sure." Sherlock replied absently. "He must have gotten it when I-As for Lestrade, I've got everything wrapped up very nicely for him." Sherlock moved to sit up, then thought better of it. He gestured helplessly, frustrated with his weakness.

"John, if you would go and get me my jacket…?"

…

He snatched Sherlock's coat from the hook, and brought it over to him. "Yes your scarf is ruined. The letters IOU, were torn in it. That's why they suspect Moran for this. Also why they he thinks you have something to do with Moran's death."

He watched Sherlock struggle to put on his coat. He looked so weak and fragile. "Just stay there. I'll call Lestrade back. Just be happy if he doesn't arrest you."

…

"Oh, that's irritating. He's very right in thinking I had something to do with Moran, though. I did kill him. Oh, Lestrade's getting better at this. He won't arrest me, though. Not when he sees what I've got." Finally, Sherlock managed to get both arms in their respective sleeves. Everton had noticed Sherlock getting ready to leave and was standing eagerly by the couch with his leash in his teeth.

"No, Ev. Well, why not. Bring it here." Sherlock attached the leash and the two waited for John to come back, a little impatiently.

…

Sherlock ignored John's suggestion and got his coat on anyway. He then fastened the leash to Everton, and waited on the couch.

"Oh right!" John said moving towards Sherlock to give him a hand. He pulled Sherlock up gently, and then steadied him when he swayed slightly. They made their way down stairs, said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and then continued out the door. John hailed a cab and they climbed in, even Everton, but the cabbie didn't seem to mind.

"New Scotland Yard." Sherlock told the cabbie.

John noted the envelope that poked out from Sherlock's coat pocket, and decided not to ask. He'd just get a vague answer that would annoy him. It was a short ride, and John helped Sherlock out of the back when the got there. They walked in and John remembered that Sherlock hadn't been here in 3 years. Most of these people probably thought Sherlock was still dead.

"Sherlock?" Anderson almost yelled as he exited his office and faced Sherlock and John in the hallway.

"Jesus." Donovan added as she joined Anderson in the hall.

…

Everton growled slightly, Sherlock silenced him with a subtle motion.

"Anderson. Donovan. I see they still let you run loose." It was a weak jab, and he was fairly certain everyone there knew it, but Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to come up with anything better.

"Jesus, you're dead!" Anderson repeated. Donovan just stared, disbelieving.

"Obviously not." Sherlock ignored John's look. He was getting irritated. "Where's Lestrade? I have something for him."

…

"But?" Anderson questioned.

"Stop blabbering is Lestrade here? It's important." John asked finally snapping them back into reality.

"Yeah. In his office." Donovan answered; keeping her eye on Sherlock as though if she looked away he would disappear. Sherlock made a hand motion and Everton started to trot down the hallway. He barreled right between Anderson and Donovan; John had to force himself not to laugh at the look on their faces until they were at Lestrade's office.

"Oh Sherlock, glad to see you up and moving." Greg said getting up to shake Sherlock's hand. "John said you had something for me?"

…

"Yes, well, 'moving' is an improvement from yesterday. But yes, I've got something you might want." Sherlock pulled the envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the desk in front of Lestrade and enjoying the expression on the Inspector's face.

"Everything should be there. Forty-two men that have been wandering the city right under your nose. Now really, Greg, you have been slipping. And I believe there is a good deal on Moran, as well." Sherlock smirked.

…

"Uhh…" Greg obviously wasn't getting it. Neither was John.

"Yeah what exactly are you talking about?" He asked turning to Sherlock, and saw as the smirk feel from his lips. He sighed.

…

"Honestly. Open it up, you'll find enough evidence there to convict all forty-two men who were working for Moriarty that were never even suspected. As well as Moran. I had quite a bit of time to gather it all. Didn't want to go chasing after them all myself." Sherlock heard Donovan enter the room behind them. No Anderson, he must have had the good sense to return to his office. Sherlock leaned heavily against Lestrade's desk, suddenly tired, and vaguely hoping John wouldn't notice. The last thing he wanted was to appear helpless in front of Sergeant Sally Donovan.

…

Sherlock was supporting himself on Lestrade's desk, he needed to sit down, but John knew he wouldn't if Donovan was still there. John sat down in one of the chairs facing Lestrade's desk, hoping Sherlock would take the other. Thankfully he did.

They both sat, somewhat patiently, while Greg looked through the envelope. Everton kept an eye on Sally the whole time, looking very protective of Sherlock and even John.

"You're telling me you found every person associated with Moriarty?" He asked as he straightened the papers and put them back in the envelope sliding it to the side of his desk.

…

Sherlock jumped a little at the sound of Lestrade's voice. "Not only found, but more or less caught. It did take me three years, Lestrade." Sherlock impatiently tapped on the arm of the chair, too aware of Donovan staring at the back of his head. John was giving him a sympathetic look, probably the same one Lestrade would be giving him if he wasn't so occupied by the contents of the envelope Sherlock had given him. He reached down and patted Everton, who wagged his tail once. It was strangely reassuring to have the dog there. Perhaps because Ev was the only one not being either completely annoying or pitying him.

…

"Donovan, please leave." Greg ordered.

"But!" She nearly whined.

"Now!" He ordered more forcefully. She leaves slamming the door behind her. John can tell what Sherlock is thinking, what a child. "So what you're telling me is that Richard Brooke is fake, and you are innocent."

Sherlock nodded. John edged further on his chair. Praying that Lestrade will have enough evidence to clear his name. Greg picked up the envelope and held it out towards Sherlock. Shaking it as he talked. "If I get fired for this Sherlock I'm going to kill you."

…

"You won't be fired, Greg. Think about it."

Sherlock leaned forward, reading Greg's thoughts by his nervous tapping. The Inspector had two options, neither of which he appreciated much. He could either arrest Sherlock as regulation and pretty much the law said he had to, or let him go while he verified the evidence Sherlock had brought him and risk the wrath of his superiors. The only question was which Lestrade would choose.

…

"Trust me Sherlock I don't want to see you locked up either, but…"

"But nothing!" John interrupted. "Just let him go. You've got the evidence, it's over." He mulled it over for a second more.

"Alright. Ok, you're free to go then, I guess."

…

Sherlock cast John a grateful look that only the doctor would recognize. His shoulder was aching and the thought of spending a night in prison was hardly a pleasant one.

"I'll be going, then. Coming, John?" Sherlock braced himself on the arms of the chair and stood without waiting for John to help him. Not in front of Lestrade. It was a bit of a risk, but he only wobbled briefly before he found his balance. He felt rather than saw Lestrade and John exchanging looks.

…

John shared a worried look with Lestrade. Sherlock was over doing it, but John would never say anything to Lestrade in front of Sherlock.

"Yes, let's get home. I really need some sleep. I'm sure you do to." Sherlock just grunted, and tapped his leg. Signaling Everton to follow him.

When they got home John made sure Sherlock's stitches were still in place, and the redressed his wounds. Sherlock looked utterly annoyed with the whole process, but thanked John when he was done.

…

"John." Sherlock called as the doctor was about to leave for his bedroom. "Would you pass me my laptop?" He motioned to the device in question, which was sitting buried under papers on the dining room table, where it had been for three years.

…

It felt weird moving things. John had made sure to never move Sherlock's work, it felt wrong. He picked up the laptop and blew off the layer of dust that had collected on one corner that wasn't covered in papers, and handed it to Sherlock.

"I don't know if it will start up. It's probably dead." Sherlock hit the power button but it didn't turn on. John looked around the kitchen for the cord. After a few minutes of not finding it, he remembered seeing it in Sherlock's room. He found it on Sherlock's nightstand, brought it out to him and plugged it in.

"What do you need it for anyway?"

…

"Have to check on something. A few things, actually." Sherlock replied cryptically, ignoring John's look of disapproval. He needed to see if the trials of the men he had brought in while abroad had gone as they were supposed to, and make sure every man that he had caught stayed that way. Quite a few of them had a death sentence or life imprisonment awaiting them, Sherlock wouldn't have them miss that. "Thank you, John."

…

"No problem Sherlock. Just go to bed soon yeah?" John questioned, starting up the stairs to his room. "You need your rest. Nicotine patches aren't going to fix your injuries."

…

"I doubt you'd let me near a patch anyway. I saw you move them earlier, and frankly, I'm surprised you kept them." Sherlock replied absently, staring through the laptop screen as it booted up.

…

"I told you. I couldn't throw anything away. It hurt just thinking about it." And with that last stupid comment that left John feeling ridiculous, he went into his room. Closed his door, and feel into a deep sleep; for the first time in what felt like days.


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade glanced up at the window of the building before him. 221b Baker Street. It had really been a while since he had come here with anything for Sherlock.

And Christ, did he have something for Sherlock. Every name in Sherlock's envelope had been found, all of the evidence the detective had gathered had led to their arrests. And most of all, Richard Brook, aka Moriarty, had been proved a fraud. Sherlock's name had been cleared.

Lestrade climbed the stairs to the door and knocked. A furious barking and growling began on the other side of the door.

Sherlock, however, had fallen asleep on the sofa and only stirred briefly at the racket.

…

John yawned and made his way down the stairs to see what Everton was barking at. Great he'd only gotten about three hour of sleep. He heard the knocking when he got downstairs and opened the door to see Lestrade… smiling.

"You look happy." John said as he led Greg into the living room. Sherlock was still sound asleep. He pointed to the kitchen, Greg followed him in and they sat at the kitchen table. Sherlock needed the rest, no need to wake him. Though Everton was trying to do just that it seemed. He stood by Sherlock's head, which was against the arm of the couch, growling. John tried shushing him. He tried different hand motions, but nothing would get the dog to stop growling. "Everton please be quiet?" John pleaded. He kept growling. Blocking out Everton John turned back to Lestrade; he knew it had something to do with Moriarty, hopefully it was good. Hopefully the news would allow Sherlock to get back to his normal life. The life before the fall, when there was no one by the name of Richard Brooke. John raised a questioning eyebrow.

…

Lestrade grinned.

"I don't know how, but he's done it again. Everything proved out, undeniable. Have a look." He passed John a file. Everton's growl intensified as the Inspector moved, but thankfully the dog didn't move from his place by Sherlock's side. Lestrade eyed him warily.

"The dog's not going to bite, is it?"

…

Lestrade grinned.

"I don't know how, but he's done it again. Everything proved out, undeniable. Have a look." He passed John a file. Everton's growl intensified as the Inspector moved, but thankfully the dog didn't move from his place by Sherlock's side. Lestrade eyed him warily.

"The dog's not going to bite, is it?"

…

"No I think you'll be fine. I wouldn't get any closer to Sherlock though." John warned. He opened the envelope flipping through the massive amount of paper work that was inside. Mug shots of all the people Sherlock had told Lestrade about. John counted them, all forty-two. "That's incredible. So this means he's all set? We don't have to worry about you showing up here with a set of handcuffs anytime soon?"

…

"Nope." Lestrade answered, eyeing Everton warily. "But that's not the best part. That's in here." He placed another file on the table. "Richard Brook is officially a lie. And Moran, well, we still don't know who killed him, and I can't say as I mind the fact that he's dead, but there was enough evidence to get him at least six life sentences anyway. Now, I'd better go. Wasn't supposed to bring these by here at all, just thought Sherlock would appreciate it." Lestrade stood to leave. Everton barked threateningly.

"Tranquille, Ev." Sherlock mumbled, sitting up groggily. The dog immediately sat, wagging his tail ever so slightly.

…

"I have got to write that down." John said, he walked over to Sherlock and started to help him up but thought better of it. Sherlock would be angry with him if he helped him in any way in front of Lestrade. "Sorry Everton woke you. I couldn't get him to stop barking, I tried everything." John leaned closer to Sherlock. "I don't think he likes Greg much." He whispered. He laughed and then coughed from laughing. "Here." John said handing him the glass of water that was on the coffee table. "Greg brought you something." He handed over the two envelopes. "You're officially free."

…

"Thank you, John, Lestrade." Sherlock stared at the folders in his hands, knowing without opening them what they were. What they meant. Suddenly he realized that he had been sitting silently and gazing at the files. Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. "Everton won't bite, Lestrade, honestly, you can stop cowering." He remarked, but there was none of his usual sting in the comment.

"He's trained to dislike everyone until proven otherwise."

…

John had noticed Sherlock gazing at the envelopes. It had been hard for John the past three years but he could hardly imagine how horrible it must have been for Sherlock. Running, always running, fighting and getting shot at. Doing it all on his own, without a home or friends to return to at night, at least John had had that. Even when he did return home he still worried about being taken away again. These envelopes were what Sherlock had needed to stay in 221b. To stay with John, and go back to being the world's only consulting detective. It was a major relief, and you could see it on Sherlock's face. Only slightly, so that Lestrade probably couldn't see it, but John could.

…

Lestrade jumped when Sherlock addressed him.

"No, well, I know…it's just… I like it over here." He stammered, Sherlock always managed to make him feel…dull, for lack of a better word. Also, he didn't like the look of that dog.

"And anyway, I'd better be going. Wasn't supposed to bring these by, anyway." Lestrade held out his hand for the files. Sherlock looked at it for a minute, strangely unwilling to put his freedom back in another's hands. He shook his head (a mistake, the room began spinning almost instantly and stubbornly refused to stop) and gave the folders back. Lestrade turned to leave.

"Thank you, Lestrade. Really." An awkward silence descended as Sherlock spoke the words.

…

"It's uh… no problem. Hopefully you'll be able to come back to work soon eh?" Sherlock nodded, Greg returned the nod and left.

John walked over and sat in is chair. He leaned back exhausted, looking at the inside of his eyelids until Sherlock cleared his throat, obviously trying to get his attention.

"Please don't make me move unless it's completely necessary."

…

"It isn't." Sherlock reassured him. He had been about to ask John to hand him his laptop, which had fallen off the couch when Sherlock had fallen asleep, and was currently out of reach. It probably would have been necessary for John to move, but Sherlock had more or less decided to do it himself. Quietly, so as not to alert John, who had clearly started to doze, Sherlock leaned forward, arm stretched out for the computer. He was really beginning to regret refusing the painkillers John had tried to force on him earlier. His shoulder was aching again.

Everton looked at him curiously as his fingers just brushed the corner of the computer. Damn.

On the third try he managed to drag it closer. John had begun to snore softly.

Finally closing his hand around the computer, he started to lift it when his shoulder twinged painfully and the laptop slipped to the floor with a crash. Damn again.

…

John woke with a start. "Bloody hell." He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the lit room. He saw Sherlock panting and sweaty. Then his laptop, which had fallen upside down onto the floor. John sighed and lifted himself out of the chair, retrieving Sherlock's laptop and placing it on the coffee table. "You didn't rip your stitches did you?" Sherlock shrugged still panting a little. John pulled the neck of Sherlock's t-shirts to the side and peeled back the bandage. The stitches were intact but it was bleeding a little. John tore off the rest of the bandage and replaced it.

He went to the kitchen and looked through the medicine cabinet for Sherlock's pain pills. Taking two of them and a glass of water to Sherlock. "Take these." John looked to the clock. "Might as well have your antibiotics now too." He said dropping them into Sherlock's cupped hand.

…

Cursing himself quietly, Sherlock did as he was told without complaint, though he grimaced a little at the taste.

"I didn't mean to wake you.," he admitted, watching John cross the room back to his chair. "I was bored."

…

"No, no I shouldn't have been like that. I'm ju," he yawned "tired. I think I'm going to head up to bed for the night. Do you need anything before I go? Want to move to your room?"

…

Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes. He was a little tired of having to be helped everywhere. "Yes, I'll manage myself." He answered. John gave him a look that Sherlock ignored. The pain in Sherlock's shoulder faded to a dull ache and then to a low throb as the medication kicked in. Everton laid his head on Sherlock's knee and whined once.


	12. Chapter 12

Three weeks later and John was back chasing after Sherlock. Greg had called them earlier about a case and they had just arrived at the crime scene.

"Simon Abbott, 22 years old. His family says that he hasn't contacted them in a while. He had stolen some of their money and run off. They haven't heard from him since." John looked around the dingy apartment where the body was sprawled on the floor. He knelt down examining the body as Sherlock did the same. Shot through the head. Quick death. There were also many lacerations and bruises, some were fresh, but most were a few days old. Sherlock got up, making a trip around the room. Observing.

"So, go ahead," Lestrade started. "tell me what you see."

…

"Someone's been here. Around four hours ago." Sherlock scanned the room for anything of use. "You've dusted for prints, I assume. Anything?" He kept moving. If there was one thing that irritated him, it was waiting. He passed a bookshelf, giving it a cursory glance, and froze.

"Oh."

…

"What? What have you got?" John questioned walking up behind him. Searching the bookshelf but seeing nothing.

…

Sherlock leaned closer to the shelf, and didn't even hear John's question. He ran his fingers across the tops of the books until his hand rested on a gap. There was nothing there. Of course that didn't mean there hadn't been. Dust never lied, and there was a large spot that was clear of it.

"Something's been taken. A box, roughly ten centimeters in length." Sherlock spoke almost to himself.

…

"But how could you.." John started looking closer at the bookshelf and noticing the empty space. "Dust! Dust never lies, oh brilliant!" John unintentionally said out loud. Lestrade came over to inspect, he nodded and then called over the photographer.

"See that dust line? Get that." He ordered turning back to Sherlock he asked. "Any idea what could be in the box?"

…

"Judging by the size, something small. Something worth killing over, though. And that, in the corner." Sherlock leaned down and caught up a mobile. "Oh, this is getting interesting. Blood on one side, dropped after the killing. Murderer's? Probably. Find the owner of this, and you've got some answers, at least. I expect he'll be returning for it." Sherlock turned to face the Inspector, who was staring at him with a blank look.

"Oh for-I propose we return later and wait for him to try."

…

John was amazed. He'd almost forgotten what Sherlock could do. How amazing his mind was, absolutely brilliant.

"And if the phone isn't the killers, then we only have this box to go on. I mean what could have been in it?" Lestrade was thinking out loud to himself.

"So something worth killing over." John repeated, turning to Greg. "There are a few obvious answers, money, drugs, blackmail, something that was stolen…" Sherlock nodded. John was on the right track.

"Yes but which one?" Lestrade questioned obviously frustrated.

"I'm leaning towards blackmail. The victim obviously knew their attacker. No sign of forced entry, also shot through the head the person didn't want to see them suffer. Or maybe Simon stole something important to his attacker. We won't know what was in the box until we find the killer." John looked to Sherlock for approval expecting no more than a nod, he was met with a genuine smile. He must be having the time of his life, back on a case. And he looked surprised and impressed by John's deductions how ever small they were, John had gotten it all from Sherlock.

…

"Well, Inspector, there really isn't anything else to be done until tonight. We'll meet at Baker Street at eleven." Sherlock pocketed the mobile and turned to leave. "Right, people are scared to death of this place, I'll leave the door unlocked." Lestrade said, motioning to his men. Sherlock whirled.

"No. That would tell him that we've discovered his mobile, and thus, himself. Say nothing about it to the media, and leave it to me. And lock the door." With that, Sherlock left without a backward glance.

…

John hurried to match up to Sherlock's annoyingly long stride. But god it felt good to be working on cases again. Sherlock hailed a cab a block or two from the crime scene.

"221B Baker Street." John told the cabbie. He settled back in the cab, looking over to Sherlock who was staring out the window. "Nice to be back on a case eh?" John questioned him, Sherlock continued to stare out the window.

…

Sherlock waited until John dropped all attempts at conversation before he allowed himself to think about his question. Good to be back on a case? More than that. It was almost as if he'd never left, if it weren't for the scars, and Donovan 'accidentally' brushing up against him, trying to assure herself that he was real. And the strange looks Anderson gave him when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking.

Sherlock sighed and turned his attention back to the case. Removing the mobile from his pocket (he couldn't believe no one had noticed he had taken it) he scrolled through the messages. Trivial information. But in a small file, there were lists of names and numbers, a full three pages. Interesting.

…

Sherlock ignored his question, his mind still on the case probably, then he noticed Sherlock looking at a phone that wasn't his. Sneaky bastard, John thought. he just sighed and looked out of the window until the cab pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock opened the cab door, carefully slipping the phone back into his pocket as he climbed out.

They were greeted by Everton's incessant barking, from behind the closed door at the top of the stairs as they entered the flat.

"Tranquille Ev." Sherlock forcefully demanded. The barking stopped once Evvie realized it was just Sherlock and John who had entered the flat.

Once in the flat both Sherlock and John took their places in their designated armchairs. Sherlock picked up his violin, he strummed it lightly. He put on his thinking face, the one that had used to bug John, but he now felt comfort in after not seeing it for so long.

"You going to tell me what you found so interesting on the phone you stole from the crime scene eh?"

…

"I don't know. Not yet, anyway. I'll need to take a closer look." Sherlock played a few notes on his violin and cast a glance at John over the top of the instrument. He really had missed his violin. "Something to do with a great deal of money, and quite a few people as well. We'll know for sure tonight."

…

A few hours later and it was nearing 11pm. Lestrade came into the room, his face said it all.

"Hand it over Sherlock." He stuck out his hand in front of Sherlock's face, tapping his foot, he was annoyed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket for the mobile, slapping it down in Greg's hand. Lestrade grunted his disapproval. First case back and he was already stealing evidence.

"So!" John said trying to break the tension a little. "We're going back to the house yeah?"

…

"Obviously, John. I did say we were to meet here. You brought the patrol car, Inspector, excellent." Sherlock spoke before the Inspector could manage to say anything. "We had best start out, wouldn't want to miss our man." Sherlock called Everton over and snapped the leash to his collar.

…

"You're bringing the dog?" Lestrade looked at Sherlock in surprise, Sherlock continued out the door ignoring Greg's stupid question. Everton trotted beside Sherlock, matching his pace while John and Greg dropped behind slightly. "The dog isn't going to pee in my patrol car is it?" Greg asked eyeing the dog suspiciously.

"No Ev is very well trained." John assured him as they approached the car. John got into the passengers side while Sherlock slipped into the back with Everton and they made their way to the crime scene they had left earlier. Ready to catch the killer.

…

Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the door as they made their way through the streets. John and Lestrade were making meaningless conversation in the front of the car, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. Which were currently wrapped around one thought. Whoever had taken the box from the shelf had not been the same person who dropped the phone. And why would the mobile have been dropped after the murder, unless there had, in fact, been two people at the scene. But why? Sherlock didn't notice when they pulled up at the house, or John opening his door and telling him they had arrived. Why were there two people? Partners? Unlikely. There hadn't been any premeditated violence on the murderer's mind. A coincidence? Even less probable. Why?

…

"Sherlock?" John must have called his name four or five times. He must have been rummaging through his mind palace. "Sherlock!" He said again more forcefully. This got the detective's attention. He climbed out of the car, pulling Everton out as well. John walked behind him as they made their way up to the house. Something made Everton start to bark as they neared the front door.

…

"Hush." Sherlock hissed. Everton immediately fell silent, dropping his head and looking for all the world like a scolded child. Sherlock motioned to the corner of the front step, where they could see without being seen.

"I'll wait here. Lestrade, you and John there." He pointed to another hiding place not far from the house.

…

John took his orders, he moved like he did once in the army. Silently. John reached into the waistband of his pants pulling out the handgun he had stored there before they left the house. Lestrade of course didn't know he was caring a concealed weapon, well he _didn't _anyway. But once he saw it he really didn't look surprised, probably for the reason that he had pulled his own gun. John could hear the suspect running through the woods near the house. He looked to Sherlock, and with a silent nod, Sherlock ran after him.

…

Sherlock could hear the man crashing through the brush ahead of him, probably trying to be quiet, but failing miserably. They headed around to the back door of the house. Sherlock stayed where he was in the trees as the man climbed the back steps and tested the door, which he found was open. He cast a glance around, checking for witnesses, but of course he never saw Sherlock. Once he had gone inside, the detective moved closer, taking up a position just outside the door. Sherlock could hear John and Lestrade in the trees behind him, but didn't bother looking. He must have waited a full ten minutes before he heard the footsteps that told him the suspect was leaving the house.

The man shrieked and fainted dead away as Sherlock stepped out of the shadows and caught him by his shirt collar.

…

John could barely see what was going on. He could barely make out Lestrade's form just a few feet away from him. They were both inching closer to the house in case Sherlock needed backup. John couldn't hear anything for a while and couldn't see the detective, he was starting to worry. Then he heard someone shriek, and both John and Lestrade started towards the house.

…

"Oh, brilliant." Sherlock muttered, leaning down beside the unconscious man. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade's voice. "Jesus, Sherlock, what did you do to him?"

"Nothing. Well, may have startled him a bit."

…

"A bit?" Lestrade questioned sarcastically. Sherlock just shrugged. "Alright then, so this is the killer yeah?" Sherlock flipped the man he had caught over. He studied his face, his hands, and his shoes. He shook his head.

"How is he not the killer?" John asked. "You, you told us that the killer would be coming back!"

…

"Actually, I said the owner of the phone would be returning. And he has. But I hardly think someone who was collected enough to not only take something, but search the house for it, would be so careless as to leave his mobile behind. What we have here is some more information." Sherlock gestured to the unconscious man, somewhat impatiently. "He came in after the murder, and judging by his…excitability, fled as soon as he saw the body, dropping his mobile in his haste. The only question that remains is why."


	13. Chapter 13

"How long do you think it will take before he breaks him?" Lestrade questioned John as Sherlock interrogated the suspect.

"Oh I'd say 5 minutes."

"I'll bet you 10 pounds it'll be in less than three."

"You're on." John said setting the timer on his watch.

…

"What were you doing at the house?" Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair. The man across from him, whose name was John Neligan, shook slightly.

"I had only gone to talk to Simon. We used to be friends, him and I. Then Simon got himself into a spot of trouble, needed money, I suppose. I offered him a few hundred pounds, but it wasn't enough. I'm a banker, handle all sorts of people's money. He stole most of it and ran, I only came to try and talk to him, honest!" Neligan nearly shrieked. Sherlock didn't say anything, processing the information.

"The names on your mobile…the money that was taken?" Neligan nodded. "I imagine that would quite ruin your future as a banker, the perfect motive for a murder." Sherlock continued. The other man shot him a panicked glance and looked as though he would faint again.

"No, no no no, that's not it! That's not what happened! You have to believe me!"

Instead of replying, Sherlock stood and left the room.

…

John handed Lestrade a ten pound note.

"Thanks mate." He gave John a slap on the back and went over to speak to Sherlock about the interrogation. John joined them.

"So how'd it go in there?"

…

"Obviously he doesn't know anything about the real murderer, but he does have some interesting information on how we might find him. We only need to look for someone cashing in any of these securities, and we've got our man." Sherlock pressed the mobile into Lestrade's hands and strode out.

…

John and Lestrade followed behind. Greg got into his cruiser while Sherlock and John hailed a cab back to the flat. John slid in first waiting for Sherlock, but he stood outside of the cab staring back into the woods. Everton stood beside him growling.

"Sherlock what is it?" John slid back across the seat looking as well. Lestrade got out of his cruiser turning to Sherlock and taking in his face. John took it in too, it was 'the face'.

"Ok what have you got now?" Lestrade asked before Sherlock took off running back into the woods Everton trailing behind him.

"Sherlock!" John yelled but he was already too far away to hear his panicked scream.

…

Sherlock weaved through the trees as fast as he could manage. He had just realized where the murderer would be hiding, and where he could be leaving at any time. Sherlock had decided to get there first. He dropped Ev's leash so the dog could keep pace better.

On the other side of the trees, he veered right and kept going down a side street that probably didn't see much traffic. A perfect spot.

The door of one of the buildings had been forced open recently, and it was this door that Sherlock kicked open. The man inside yelped and bolted, leaving whatever it was he had been poring over on the floor. Sherlock grinned. He almost liked it when they ran.

"Everton!" He shouted, pointing. The dog barked once and put on a burst of speed as the murderer shot out a back door and back to the street.

…

John and Lestrade hoped into the cruiser, Greg put on the lights and siren. They traveled around the block to where John had suspected Sherlock had gone. Greg slammed on the brakes nearly hitting the man that John thought could only be the murderer. The man was frozen in front of the cruiser in fear. That's when Everton jumped out and tackled the man to the ground, Sherlock quickly following. Greg put the cruiser in park, stepping out he let Sherlock pull Everton off of the man before placing him in handcuffs.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Simon Abbott." He continued reading him his Miranda rights.

…

Everton growled and made another lunge for the man, snapping at his leg. He jerked away and narrowly avoided the dog's teeth.

"Ev." Sherlock appeared from inside the building. The dog sat obediently, but didn't look pleased about it. "Inspector, the securities that were taken are in there. I've accounted for all of them."

…

"Great! Give me one second and we'll go in and collect them and any other evidence we can find." Lestrade started patting the suspected murderer down. He pulled out the man's wallet, inspecting his drivers' license. "Rupert Adams, what a great name." He said moving down to the suspect's ankles patting them all over. The suspect lifted his foot and John could see what was going to happen but didn't have enough time to warn Greg before he got Rupert's boot imprinted on his face. Rupert took off down the alley on the opposite side of the main road.

…

"Oh, why can they never accept that they've been caught?" Sherlock groaned, tearing off after the man again, who was moving surprisingly quickly in handcuffs. Ev faithfully kept pace beside him. "John, the Inspector has a broken nose, if you wouldn't mind seeing to it." He called back over his shoulder. This time, Sherlock didn't hurry, he knew where Adams was headed, and it was a dead end.

Or at least he had assumed, until Adams scaled the barbed wire fence with relative ease and kept running.

"Oh, for god's sake." Sherlock heaved himself over as well, tearing his coat on one of the barbs.

Everton started barking madly, unable to follow and not at all happy about it. As Sherlock drew further away, the dog began throwing himself against the fence, tearing himself to pieces on the wire but not seeming to care, yelping.

"Sorry, Ev." Sherlock muttered, and kept after his man.

…

"Bloody hell! Ah shit this is a good shirt too!" Lestrade complained as blood slid down his face, dripping from his chin onto his shirt. John retrieved the first aid kit from the glove compartment of the police car. He handed Greg a handful of gauze. There wasn't much more he could do with out having an x-ray, but by the looks of it his nose would probably have to be re-aligned. And it was much better to do that when there were strong painkillers involved.

"You alright? I need to go find Sherlock! Make sure he hasn't gone and gotten himself killed."

"I'm fine, go ahead." Lestrade said taking a seat in the police car, tilting his head back to stop the river of blood that was still coursing out of his nose. John ran down the alley and came to a stop when he noticed Evvie hurling himself at the fence.

"Everton!" John's tone was commanding but the dog paid him no mind. "Tranquille Everton." Still the dog threw himself at the fence. Barking, snarling and yelping each time he came in contact with it. His coat was matted with blood. It was terrifying. John had had enough, he grabbed hold of the dogs collar yanking it as hard as he could. The dog relaxed slightly as John got down face level and looked into his eyes. "Go back to Lestrade." John ordered, pointing back in the direction they came from. Everton seemed to sigh, (could dogs sigh?) but followed John's orders.

The doctor found a crate that would make getting over the barbed wire fence much easier. It was still quite difficult and he sliced his palm open, but he forgot about it as soon as he heard the gun go off.

…

Sherlock scowled. The bullet had missed by several yards, but he still did not appreciate being shot at. Thinking quickly, he ducked into an alley, knowing where it would lead out. Hopefully, he could head Adams off at the next street.

Lestrade heard the gunshot, very faint and far away, but knew instantly who it had been aimed at. Immediately after, a frenzied barking began again.

"Jesus, Sherlock, if you get yourself killed again, so help me…" Clamping his hand around his nose, he went to investigate, his own gun drawn as he turned the corner.

The only thing he saw was John Watson sprinting away from the fence in the direction of the shot, and that bloody dog of Sherlock's scrabbling hopelessly at the fence. "John? Ah, shit." He muttered. "Hey, there, good dog, take it easy. Sit?" Everton stopped and growled at him briefly, then returned his attention back to the fence. Lestrade sighed. Of course.

…

John pulled the gun he had stored in the waistband of his jeans earlier that night. He always brought his gun on a case, no one had ever noticed, but it made John feel powerful. Knowing he could protect himself, and Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" He whispered as he squinted in the dark for any sign of a human figure. He could barely see. The streetlight was out and it was well past midnight at this point. The doctor sprinted towards the end of the street. Half hiding behind the wall of a building, he looked to the cross street. He could barely make out the figure standing in the street. After a moment of squinting he could see that it was Rupert. He was a nervous wreck. His head snapping in the direction of every noise.

John was about to go and take him down when he saw Sherlock jump Rupert from behind, pinning him to the street.

…

"John, if you would care to assist me rather than stand there with your mouth hanging open?" Sherlock growled as Adams struggled to free himself. "He managed to break Lestrade's cuffs, now how did he manage that."

…

John took hold of one of Adams' arms Sherlock the other, and they pushed him towards the police car a few blocks away. They secured a new pair of cuffs on him and stuffed him into the back seat. Lestrade thanked them for their excellent work. Then brought their attention to Everton who was whining softly. He was bleeding, and he wouldn't place his right front paw in the ground.

…

Sherlock leaned down and stroked Everton's head. The dog wagged it's tail and whined, clearly still upset at having been left behind.

"We'd best get back to the flat. I have an experiment I'd like to try."

…

"What about Everton? He needs to see a vet, look at him he's clearly got a broken bone."

…

"It's only a rib, and I have neither the time, nor the desire to teach him not to attack everyone who approaches him. We'll just take him home." Sherlock replied, motioning for Ev to jump into the cab he had just waved down.

…

Unbelievable, John thought.

"He's torn himself up, and has a broken rib and an obvious broken bone in his paw. No I'll take him to the vet. You go home and do your bloody experiment." John got into the cab after Everton, shutting the door in Sherlock's face. He might be able to run around with gun shot wounds whilst suffering from extreme malnutrition and dehydration, but John wouldn't make a poor helpless dog go through such things with out proper care.

John just hoped that the emergency vet's office would still be open.

…

_John, have you considered what you've just gotten yourself into? –SH_

…

_No Sherlock please tell me what I've just gotten myself into. –JW_

…

_Do you have any idea of what the command for Ev to stand down is? Otherwise he'll be bound to bite the first person that gets within range. –SH_

…

_Oh Jesus Sherlock just give me the damn command. –JW_

…

_No. –SH_

…

_Stop being a 4-year old and just give me the command. Please Sherlock?-JW _

…

_I don't understand why you're unable to treat Ev at the flat. –SH_

…

_I don't have the proper supplies at the flat for a cast. Plus I'm a doctor, not a vet. I know nothing about a dog's anatomy. –JW_

…

…_Fine. Just tell Ev to stay. In German. –SH_

…

Thank god John had a smartphone.

_Thank you.-JW_

…

_Bring him home when they're done. -SH _

Sherlock angrily slammed his mobile back into his pocket, deciding he'd rather walk back to Baker Street than catch a cab, despite the distance.

…

"Bleiben Evvie." He ordered the dog with the German word for stay, as the vet started to patch him up. He did in fact end up having a broken rib and toe. The vet tended to those and also disinfected many of the more major cuts Everton had acquired during his run in with the fence. He was given Antibiotics and pain medication and they were sent home.

"We're home. Evvie was fine by the way." John unclipped Everton's leash, he searched for a place to hang it, and he ended up slipping the loop ever the knife that stuck out of the mantelpiece. Good enough, he thought, and sat down in his chair. Exhausted from the case, but exhilarated at the same time. The consulting detective and the army doctor were back solving crimes. The way it should be.

…

Nothing but silence greeted John. Sherlock had wandered farther than he intended. The night was cool but not cold, and Sherlock was enjoying being out of the flat. Crossing the street, he kept on, not really caring where he was going.


	14. Chapter 14

It had been a day. John was slightly nervous, but it wasn't like Sherlock hadn't disappeared for a few days at a time before. But then again now things were different. John didn't think he'd want to be anywhere but 221b after being gone for so long. But then again, no one knew how Sherlock Holmes thought. He wondered if something had gone wrong. Should he go looking for him, or should he just send him another text. He didn't know.

…

When Sherlock finally noticed where he was, it was well past midnight. He had been lost in his city, re-memorizing every detail since his absence, aimlessly wandering. Sherlock's mobile chimed, and he frowned. John would be cross, he had best return to the flat. He sent what he hoped was a reassuring text to John before turning back to Baker Street.

_Apologies. –SH_

…

When John got Sherlock's text he was relieved. At least he wasn't dead, John thought.

Sherlock had walked through the door 15 minutes later, slowly as if waiting for John to jump down his throat. John caught his eye, he looked regretful.

"The last time you disappeared you came back half dead." The statement came out a little harsher than John had intended.

…

Sherlock flinched inwardly at John's jab. But he kept his face impassive.

"I had to re-familiarize myself with the city. Things change in three years." Without a further comment, he disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door.

…

John stiffened at the slight slam of the door. He hadn't planned on yelling. "Sherlock I am not done speaking with you." He explained as if he were talking to a child (the consulting nine year old). "I get that you missed London but you can't just disappear like that and not tell anyone!"

…

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't think he needed to. He was a grown man, and more than capable of looking after himself. Besides, he had only been gone for…over six hours. Perhaps John did have a right to complain. But rather than admit he was wrong, he ignored his flatmate.

…

John waited but there was no sign that Sherlock was going to come out of his room and talk to him like and adult. Sighing he turned and started towards his room.

…

Sherlock heard John's footsteps recede, but made no move to go after him. In the morning they would both pretend this hadn't happened, the way they always did. Things were back to normal, weren't they? Sherlock supposed he'd find out in the morning.

…

John woke and went downstairs to make himself a morning cuppa. Sherlock had emerged from his room now on the couch lying on his back with his eyes closed. At least he wasn't turned towards the couch, sulking. He was petting Evvie seemingly absentmindedly.

"Are you ready to quit being a 9 year old and talk?"

…

Sherlock winced.

"I believe I'm talking now." The retort was weak and he knew it.

…

"Don't pull this crap Sherlock. I'm only mad because I was worried! Or do you not understand that? Did you not think about what I might have been thinking about the last time you were gone and came back a week later on death's door!"

…

Everton growled at the raised voices, but Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't been thinking, just wandering. He had done it so many times in those three years that it just felt…natural. It certainly worked better to help him think than his seven-percent solution ever had. "Do you want me to apologize again, John?"

…

"I…," He took a deep breath shaking his head. "No I don't want you to apologize again." John realized how unnatural this was. He had never been worried before when Sherlock had disappeared for days. It was what he did. John had over reacted, but he couldn't stand thinking about what could happen. He couldn't lose his best friend again. Sherlock was all he had.

"I'm sorry. I was just worried, that's all. I'm sorry I shouldn't have called you a consulting 9 year old."

…

"You only called me a nine year old in you head, John. As you've done before." Sherlock replied easily, as though they were talking about something else entirely.

…

"Could you please try and be serious. I think we should set some… I don't know rules or something."

…

"Rules?" Sherlock smirked, which was his equivalent to a laugh. "I'm hardly a child anymore, John."

…

"You can surely fool me sometimes." John shrugged his shoulders, his frustration level was rising again. "How about this, if you want to go out just shoot me a text every couple hours so I know you're not DEAD!"

…

"Fine. Provided you leave off your nattering." Sherlock nearly snapped, but he was more amused than irritated.

…

John couldn't help but smile. The day had proved that Sherlock was back to himself. He'd been hovering on the line of not quite, and completely Sherlock Holmes for days. Today he finally cleared the line. The doctor rolled his eyes and shook his head at the detective but the smile stayed in place, because after the fall all he ever wished for was for Sherlock to come back. And though he'd been physically back for a couple of months, this was the first time John had really felt like he was there in spirit.

…

Sherlock noted the look on John's face and decided that the argument was over. He pushed himself up off the couch and walked past his flatmate into the kitchen, picking up the phone.

"In the mood for Chinese?" He didn't wait for John to answer, he never had. And, most likely, never would.


End file.
